The Diamond Isle d-3 Page 2

  Then there were no more blades to meet; no more dying screams or pleas for mercy. A true deathly quiet descended. The warrior gazed about him, wild-eyed and bereft, sweat sheening his brow despite the cold.

  A tattered cheer went up. Their elite beaten, the remaining pirates were surrendering their weapons. The islanders set to corralling prisoners, and to tending the wounded. But for all that he’d tipped the battle in their favour, they avoided looking at the warrior, except for furtive glances.

  He seemed lost, as though dazed at having his purpose taken away.

  Of the two smaller raiding ships, one was in limping retreat. The other was on fire. Flames had taken hold of its sails, converting canvas to fluttering ash. Islanders were abandoning ship, shinning down ropes to their waiting boats. The surviving pirates were jumping overboard.

  A pall of oily smoke began to shroud the vessel. Moving at a clip, the flying disc sliced out of it and headed for the captured galleon. The rider flew low, letting himself be seen by the victorious islanders beneath, triggering a renewed clamour. Then he spotted his objective, and swooped to the deck.

  The disc hovered in front of the fighter in black. Its rider smoothed down his mop of blond hair. There was soot on his cheeks. He was good-looking, his features dominated by shrewd azure eyes, and he sported a neatly barbered goatee. His build was athletic, with broad shoulders and sturdy arms. But his legs hung uselessly from the edge of the floating dish.

  He stared at the warrior, who had a glazed expression and seemed unaware of his presence.

  ‘Reeth.’ The disc rider’s gravel voice belied his looks. ‘Reeth.’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Reeth!’ he repeated. ‘Get a grip, man! Reeth!’

  The warrior was insensible. A lingering spark of bloodlust still lit his eyes.

  A wooden bucket hung from the rail beside them. The disc tilted slightly as the rider reached for a ladle in the pail. He lifted a scoop of water and, turning, flung it hard in the warrior’s face.

  The icy sting snapped the man in black out of his reverie. He shook his head, shedding droplets, and brought up his blades. His eyes blazed. Passion rekindled, face contorted, he lurched forward menacingly.

  ‘Reeth!’ the rider barked, his disc swaying. ‘It’s over! We won!’

  The warrior hesitated.

  ‘Steady,’ the rider added, his tone soothing. ‘It’s me. Zahgadiah.’

  Reeth Caldason froze. He blinked, and started to focus. ‘Darrok?’ he whispered.

  ‘It’s over, Reeth. You can stop now.’

  Slowly, Caldason came to himself and lowered his swords. He took several shuddering breaths.

  ‘You all right?’ Darrok asked.

  Caldason nodded, expressionless.

  ‘You look terrible. But I’ll take your word for it.’ He regarded the Qalochian. ‘You certainly know how to ride a fit, I’ll give you that.’

  Caldason ignored the observation. ‘It went well?’

  ‘Look around.’

  As though for the first time, he saw the litter of corpses, many marking his trail. He betrayed no particular emotion. ‘Vance?’

  ‘Not here, it seems.’

  Caldason spied the burning ship and its sister getting away. ‘On that?’

  ‘I doubt it. The bastard’s too cautious to expose himself. He’ll be near, though.’

  ‘Pity.’ It sounded a strange word to be coming from his lips.

  ‘Let’s be grateful for what we’ve got. Meeting them at sea was a good plan, Reeth, rather than facing them once they’d landed.’

  The Qalochian let the compliment pass. His attention seemed to be wandering again.

  ‘We’ve captured this ship, and destroyed another,’ Darrok went on gruffly, ‘and we’ve killed plenty of the raiders. That’s a good result.’ He surveyed the scene and grew sombre. ‘But we can’t go on spending our people’s lives this freely. We have to find a way to-’

  ‘Hear that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen.’

  Darrok bellowed for silence. The jubilant islanders quietened down.

  It took a moment for them to realise that what they were hearing was someone singing.

  The sound came from a distance, and drifted with the wind. But they heard enough to recognise its melancholy beauty. Though the words couldn’t be made out, the song had the unmistakable air of a lament.

  ‘What the hell…?’ Darrok peered around, trying to place the source.

  An exquisite purity of tone added to the melody’s eerie, bitter-sweet quality. Islanders and captives alike stood enraptured, wondering at the strange, haunting refrain.

  ‘What is it?’ Darrok said.

  Caldason slowly shook his head.

  Darrok pointed to a lingering fog bank, well offshore. ‘It has to be there.’

  ‘Then Vance is, too.’

  ‘Do we go after him?’

  Caldason considered it. ‘No. As you say, enough lives have been spent for one day. Why chance an ambush?’

  Darrok nodded.

  They listened a little longer, then the singing began to fade. The bustle on the ship resumed.

  ‘We’ve done our bit here,’ Darrok decided. ‘Get on, I’ll take us home.’ He extended a hand.

  The saucer rose and carried them towards the Diamond Isle.

  A series of fortifications defended the island. Heavily armed ships were anchored at the entrances to its bays. Its beaches were scattered with stakes, netting, mantraps and spike pits, along with more subtle magical obstructions. Beyond the beaches, patrols roamed the scrublands, and watchtowers dotted the cliffs.

  There were a handful of strongholds spread around the island, some purpose-built, most adapted from existing structures. The largest was also the newest: a fortress raised by the rebels during the several months of their occupancy, and still unfinished, its construction was traditional. It comprised a succession of concentric earth mounds, one upon the other, each three times the height of a man. Where one mound plateaued, giving way to the next, there were deep, encircling ditches, filled with combustible material. After the ditches came high walls made from mature tree trunks, dressed with barbs.

  The fort proper, at the top of the mounds, consisted of several acres of flat terrain. It hosted a collection of buildings for storing supplies and weapons. Barracks and dormitories were being erected, though the distinction between soldiery and civilians was fine, as everyone was expected to fight. Stone had been carted up and used for battlements that surrounded the perimeter, forming the last line of defence. On a dozen flagstaffs, the scorpion standard fluttered in the blustery air.

  A thousand or more islanders crowded the ramparts, watching the course of the battle out at sea. They’d been cheering, but now fell silent.

  Two observers stood apart. One was a handsome woman in her prime. She was agile and strapping, though not to the extent that it threatened her femininity. Her long golden hair was tied back, and she dressed in the practical, loose-fitting garb of a fighter. She wore a sword and matching long-bladed knife. Given the prospect of another raid from the sea, she had a longbow slung over her shoulder, with the quiver at her hip.

  Her companion wasn’t much more than half her age. His pallid look of youth hadn’t completely shaded into the ruddier complexion of manhood. Nor would it for a while. His hair was ashen blond, making it harder for his attempt at a beard to make much impression. But he had a frame that was toughening under unaccustomed physical exertion, though it hadn’t fully hardened yet. He held a glamoured spy tube to his eye.

  ‘Come on,’ she complained, ‘you must be able to see something.’

  ‘It’s obviously gone well for our side.’

  ‘We knew that. What about that…sound?’

  Shrugging, Kutch Pirathon handed her the spy tube. ‘It’s too confused down there. Could have been anything.’

  ‘No.’ She looked through the tube, scanning the scene below. ‘It was too strange. Too dis
tinctive. And there was something…I don’t know; something familiar about it.’

  ‘Maybe it was just the wind.’

  ‘You don’t believe that, Kutch.’ She nodded towards the hushed crowd sharing the battlements. ‘And neither do they.’

  ‘Some magical pirate trick, then?’

  ‘Hard to see the point of it.’

  ‘We had the better of them this time. Perhaps they got desperate and-’

  ‘And what? Decided to sing at us?’

  Kutch looked suitably chastened. Hesitantly, he asked, ‘Is this really about something else?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  The words tumbled out. ‘He’ll be all right, you know. Reeth can look after himself. He’s got a way with trouble.’ He shot her a sidelong glance, uncertain of her reaction.

  Serrah Ardacris gave in to a smile. ‘You are starting to grow up, aren’t you? Of course I’m concerned about Reeth. But it isn’t just that. It’s being stuck here, and everything going wrong, and the raids and the uncertainty.’

  The youth nodded sagely.

  ‘But I still think that whatever we heard was important,’ she repeated.

  ‘Well, we can’t hear it now.’ Something caught his eye. He turned seaward again, and pointed. ‘Look.’

  Darrok’s flying disc was heading for them. From a distance it looked like a huge, black bird, gliding the updraughts. Serrah lifted the spy tube and brought the image closer. She glimpsed fire, wreckage and emerald waves. Then she locked onto the dish, reflecting metallically in the bland sunlight. She made out its two riders, one with flowing hair and cape, and didn’t hide her pleasure.

  The people on the ramparts saw the saucer too, and resumed cheering.

  ‘Let me,’ Kutch said.

  She slapped the glamoured tube into his outstretched palm.

  He focused on the battle scene. ‘It looks like we did a lot of damage to them. Using that dragon’s blood was a great idea, Serrah. Should make them think twice before they come at us again. Serrah?’

  She had a finger to her lips. ‘Sssshh!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Use your ears.’

  Everybody else was. A chorus of shushing ran through the crowd, and once more they were quietening.

  The wind had shifted. It brought the sound they’d heard earlier, but clearer this time. There was no doubt it was a human voice; flawless, lucid, and heartbreakingly poignant. No one spoke or moved, such was the hold it exerted.

  At length, Serrah whispered, ‘I’m a fool. Why didn’t I spot it right away?’

  Kutch gave her a blank look. ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you recognise it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Concentrate. Doesn’t it sound like something you know?’

  ‘It’s somebody singing.’

  ‘ Obviously. Think back, Kutch. Remember when we were at the concert in Bhealfa?’

  Realisation dawned. ‘You don’t mean-’

  ‘Yes. It’s him. Kinsel.’

  ‘Oh, come on.’

  ‘You’ve heard him sing. How can you doubt it?’

  ‘It can’t be.’

  ‘But what if it is?’

  ‘You must have keener ears than me, Serrah. I couldn’t be so sure from this far.’

  ‘Trust me, I’m right.’

  ‘But what’s Kinsel doing out here? If it is him.’

  ‘I don’t know. Does it matter? He’s alive; that’s all that counts.’

  They listened in silence, lost in their thoughts. The flying disc drew nearer, travelling so low it almost skimmed the waves.

  ‘We have to do something,’ she said.

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like finding him, of course. And just as important…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We have to let Tanalvah know.’

  ‘Tanalvah?’

  ‘She has a right. It won’t be easy, I know. But we’ll find a way.’

  ‘You’re forgetting something.’

  She turned to look at him.

  ‘Tanalvah’s almost certainly dead, Serrah.’

  2

  The streets of Valdarr had grown meaner.

  Before the Great Betrayal imperial enforcers had shown brutality towards dissenters, while touching only lightly on the lives of most citizens who conformed. Now the gloves were off for everyone. Or practically everyone.

  In affluent quarters, where the powerful and well-connected lived, the security forces tended to see their role as protective. In poorer neighbourhoods they were more likely to harass. Emergency laws, curfews, raids and summary arrests beset the powerless but usually left the high-ranking unaffected.

  The culling of the Resistance, and the authorities’ continuing search for surviving rebels, had left the city edgy. But it was a curious aspect of the atmosphere in Valdarr, or perhaps of human nature, that straitened times made little difference to the games people played.

  Many of the rich persisted in flaunting their status. Their clothes, carriages, fine residences and other trappings were part of it, but principally they advertised their rank through costly magic. Mythical beasts waited on their banquet tables; ghostly mummers performed epic dramas on their immaculate lawns; dry waterfalls cascaded down, and up, the glorious facades of their mansions.

  The poor persisted in their wretchedness. Where they had magic at all it was mean. There might be a rudimentary jester glamour, stolen or counterfeit, to divert a hungry child. Perhaps an image charm to remind a destitute wife of a husband taken by the watch.

  Or, in the case of this bitterly cold evening, a spell in the likeness of a fire.

  It illuminated a filthy alley that snaked between windowless, dilapidated buildings. Its flames looked real enough. There were artificial sparks, and the crackling of burning logs. It faked smoke and the pungent aroma of blazing wood. But the heat it gave out was miserable. The glamour was meant only for ornamental purposes, nor would it last long. Still, it drew a small crowd of ragged drifters, glad of what little cheer there was. They huddled around the deception, trembling hands extended, gazing into the flames.

  One seemed out of place. Recently arrived, she stood in partial shadow, and was better dressed than the others. Her hair was inky black, and her smooth skin had a light olive complexion. Despite her loose clothing there was no hiding the fact that she was heavily pregnant.

  She was breathing hard and looking about nervously, in the manner of a terrified animal as it tests the air for the scent of a predator.

  A movement caught her eye. Beyond the fire, further down the drab alley, a number of figures were approaching. They didn’t shuffle, bent-backed, the way the itinerants did. There was order in their advance, and they moved with purpose. She retreated into deeper shadows.

  When the figures reached the flames’ glow they became recognisable, and her fears were confirmed. Their distinctive scarlet tunics left no room for doubt. She cursed herself for a fool for daring to think she’d escaped the paladins.

  Uproar broke out. Tattered vagrants were elbowed aside. Heedless of the fire, several of the red-jacketed men waded through it. The flames spluttered, flashed through a kaleidoscope of colours, and died. A patrol, four or five strong, was clearly visible now. Everyone scattered from their path.

  The woman touched the string of consecrated beads at her throat and mumbled a swift prayer to her goddess. Then she turned and fled again. The commotion behind her went up a notch. She heard shouting and the rasp of swords being drawn.

  The alley she hurried along came to a junction. To left and right the lanes were narrow and twisting. The way ahead broadened out into a street. There were more people in that direction, but not enough of a crowd to lose herself in. She chose the right-hand turn. Twenty paces on she came to a passageway, no wider than her outstretched arms. She entered it. The buildings on either side were so tall, and the sky so leaden, she found it hard to see where she was going. And she was splashing through a sluggish stream of icy water, and
from the smell, sewage.

  In spite of the cold she was sweating. Her bones ached and every step was an effort. But the noises at her back, which might have been the sound of pursuit, kept her moving.

  Another alley crossed hers. This led to a tiny deserted square. She went through that, staying close to the walls, and emerged in a street. It was lined with shabby houses, and to one side a stable, abandoned and boarded-up. There was nobody about.

  She stopped to listen. It was quiet, bar the distant, expected sounds of a city. Lost, exhausted, she looked for somewhere to rest, daring to hope that no one was following her. All the doors she could see were closed, and most of the windows were shuttered. The only prospect was the maw of yet another alley, almost opposite. A house forming one of the corners had its wall shored up with a low stone prop. It was flat-topped and of a height to sit on, and the alley was dark. She limped to it, hands pressed to the small of her back.

  Sighing, she perched on the crude seat. She felt the chill of the stone through her clothes and shivered. Weary beyond reckoning, she took what ease she could. But whenever she allowed herself pause for thought, no matter how fleetingly, the demons were there to torment her. Her mind turned, as always, to the children; and to her man, lost to her now, and what would become of them. She dwelt on the life she carried. The things she had done in the name of those she loved lay on her like a great weight. Her conscience made certain she never walked alone. Guilt and fear were always with her.

  Drained, she closed her eyes.

  A rough hand clamped over her mouth. A strong arm encircled her. She tried to scream, but couldn’t.

  ‘It’s all right,’ her captor said, speaking in an undertone. ‘Don’t struggle, I’m not going to hurt you.’

  The voice seemed familiar to her, but it was too indistinct for her to place it.

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said again, trying to calm her. ‘I’m going to take my hand away. Don’t scream. All right, Tan?’